Salt
by Spikey44
Summary: Along the glooming coast of Phon a knight fallen stands with back to surf and eye cast to darkness. Beyond the pall of distant yonder patient serpents and angry couerls do roam. The knight tastes salt upon his lips and weeps from wounds untended.


_Disclaimer: All known and recognisable characters, locales etc. property of Square Enix. I am just playing with them and will return them unharmed (mostly) very shortly._

**Salt**

_Along the glooming coast of Phon a knight fallen stands with back to surf and casts his eye to darkness. Beyond the pall of the distant yonder hungry serpents patiently wait within the long grass, and angry couerls do roam. The knight tastes salt upon his lips and weeps from wounds untended. _

It is night and the ocean is loud. The grey rimmed surf washes up along the purple shaded shore. Distantly the lobos howl, and the fires from the Hunter's camp wink and crackle in the darkness; laughing eyes of flame flirting with the black and starless sky.

The air is redolent with the pinch and bite of salt and brine.

Basch Fon Ronsenberg stands on the shoreline and turns his back to the vast expanse of inky ocean, and to the moon that will not show her face. He stares past the rolling dunes to where the party has made camp, close to the shelter of the hunter's settlement, but far enough away that betrayal will be scented before it is too late.

His shadow is cast long; he stands like stone. His feet sink into the cold and sucking sands. The sand is cold but his blood runs colder. He is granite. He is marble. He is shale and he is flint. He is waiting for tomorrow and for the morrow that will end them all.

Basch looks at the cliffs and up to the shreds of gossamer clouds illuminated more by imagination than any naturally occurring illumination. His cool grey eyes see through the rocks of the Phon Coast and beyond to the rolling plains of T'chita. He imagines the Marlboro Kings scuttling around the monolithic shade of broken pillars and ancient ruin. In his mind the couerls prowled the long dark grasses and the serpents coil with cold blooded patience.

In his mind he shares kindred spirit with the serpents; he wagers they are cold as he is in the night air.

'A day's long travel; or perhaps two?' He poses the internal musing aloud to the languid shadow that has just detached itself from the huddled and stooped darkness of the party's tents. The shadow, tall and rangy, blinks at him. Basch sees the eye-shine gleam like a couerl in the night.

'Do you suppose we shall reach the Sochen Caves within a day and a night, or is it wise to measure our pace more sedately?' he asks again when silence is his only answer.

'Wisdom has naught to do with this venture.' The pirate purrs darkly. He comes to stand beside Basch, bare foot and without his vest. He seems distracted.

'The Princess is in earnest to reach Archades swiftly.' Basch says, though he knows not why he bothers.

'The Princess is never ought else but in earnest,' Balthier is fast in his response. 'Her ardour grows tiresome after a while.'

A flash of sharp teeth and even sharper impatience stands revealed. Yet the pirate still seems distracted, rolling up his sleeve and scratching at his bare right forearm with the fingers of his left.

'Bugger-all I think that something has bitten me.'

'I wager you'll live,' Basch suggests seemingly without irony. He does not move; like stone he remains. His eyes from the cliffs do not stray. The pirate gives him a look and then smirks.

'Hmm well, at least until tomorrow.'

'Aye,' Basch nods. He continues to stare through rock, and the fiends in his mind continue to roam. All but the serpents that is, they do not move for it is cold in the night and their blood is so much colder still.

'The Princess told me,' Basch finally turns to the pirate who is still standing beside him examining the underside of his arm. He appears to have a rash and is scowling at the inflamed flesh irritably. 'She told me of your father.'

Balthier stops poking at his arm and glances sideways at Basch from under heavy lidded eyes.

'The Princess cannot keep a secret.' He says; no more, no less, than that. He starts scratching at his arm once more. Stillness is impossible for him. No serpent, he, Basch muses. No, here is an impatient couerl if ever there was one. All flash and swagger, tooth and claw.

'Nay,' Basch agrees with the pirate's complaint mildly, 'But I can.' He adds, thinking of the still and silent serpent, coiled in the long grass.

The scratching stops, the pirate's fingers still.

'Yes,' he agrees, 'I should imagine that you can, and do.' He nods as if to dismiss that thread of conversation. After a moment he continues to harass his weeping, red and sore flesh. 'Damn all, why do I bother with sleeves if the bloody pests just bite through the cloth?' He asks rhetorically. Basch answers anyway.

'Because you are vain, and what is concealed is more enticing than what is revealed.'

Again the scratching stops and this time Balthier lets both his arms drop to his side. He stares at the old soldier for a moment and then snickers softly, 'You are in strange spirits tonight captain, that you would attempt jest.'

'I make no jest,' Basch says still staring through rock and shadow. Still watching phantom fiends prowl through the night and patient serpents wait out the cold in their veins.

'Then you are merely strange.' Balthier rejoins but his words are without venom.

After a moment Balthier speaks again, for he is not one for silence. 'I am sure I shall regret the asking, but I must know: what is it that you stare at, captain? For I can see near to bugger all this night.'

'Aye,' Basch agrees, 'there is naught to see.'

Balthier cocks his head to the side, 'And yet you look all the same?'

The pirate does not understand. He knows not the ways of an ambush, nor the patience of a rockslide. All motion and quickness is he; all snarl and impatience. He is not as Basch is. He is not so cold inside.

'Aye,' says Basch finally and shifts his stance fractionally hearing the crunch of seashell and sand under his sandals. His feet come free of the sand with difficulty. They are cold as ice to the ankles.

There is silence again, saving the murmurs of the ocean at their backs. The air is heavy with salt; it flavours the night breeze with sharpness keener even than Basch's axe blade.

Basch wonders vaguely why it is that the pirate is out at this late hour, and why he stands beside him now, trying to see through shadow to spy Basch's hidden horizon. Still it does not really matter in the end; Basch does not mind the company. He does not need it, nor crave it, but like the rocks above that shelter the birds, he does not mind it either.

'Your father,' Basch breaks his own silence and the pirate's shadowed eyes slide towards him, 'Do you seek to save him, or to end him?'

There is a longer moment of silence, this one drawn out and strained. The pirate lifts his right arm to scratch again but stops before his fingers can curl into blunt nailed claws. The younger man then turns. He steps from Basch's side and drops into a crouch facing the approaching surf. He does not want to look at Basch who remains as impregnable as stone, and as unmoved. The pirate dips his hands into the foamy spray. He does not answer.

Basch resumes his staring. In his mind's eye a serpent ambushes a couerl and thundara streaks through the darkness. There is light and motion; there is flash and noise. He hears the snarl of the couerl as the serpent sinks its fangs into scrawny hindquarters. He sees that the skirmish is over quickly; the couerl surrenders when he has no place to run. He imagines the dance of the Marlboro kings in and out of their broken castles. He imagines that they dance even as the serpent devours the couerl whole.

He imagines that the couerl's hot blood warms the serpent in the cold and salty night.

'Your brother,' Balthier speaks raising dripping hands from the inky waters and flicking the droplets from his fingers, 'do you seek to save him, or to end him?'

Basch thinks about this, turning his back on the satiated serpent in his mind. 'Neither,' He admits eventually, 'I would but speak with him again: he is my blood; my brother.'

Balthier shifts his weight so that he can lean down and lower his inflamed forearm into the salty ocean surf. Basch hears the quick intake of breath through perfect white teeth as the salt aggravates the rash.

'That will not cleanse the burn.' He tells the younger man.

'I know,' Balthier tells him shortly and then he adds in less strident tones. 'Sometimes I salt my wounds so that others can't.'

Basch glances down at the pirate whose head is bowed as he continues to hold his arm in the water. He thinks about this statement. He thinks about the night fiends prowling in his head. He nods.

'Aye,' He says and that is all; no more, no less.

Balthier laughs and rises to his feet quick and nimble like the roaming couerls out beyond the cliffs. 'You are a rare man indeed, Captain.'

Basch shakes his head. 'Not so much in this company,' He murmurs eliciting another soft laugh from the pirate.

They are silent again, the fallen knight and the sky pirate. The pirate looks out to sea and open sky, Basch to towering walls of stone and distant grassy plains.

'Do Tchita serpents eat couerls?' Basch asks quite suddenly. The pirate glances at him curiously. He does not seem overly troubled by the odd question.

'A serpent will eat whatever it can,' Balthier answers him calmly. 'They are not fussy.'

Basch nods. He knew this already. He is not quite sure why he asked. He looks down at his sand slathered sandals. His feet are buried again. Briefly he wonders if he stays like this long enough, will he become as the cliffs before his eyes; a statue of salt and cold, cold, stone.

His stomach growls adroitly bringing such thoughts to an end, at least for the moment.

'I am hungry.' He says for no particular reason.

'You had best eat then.' The pirate replies. He has gone back to scratching at his arm. Basch notes that the pirate has opened shallow runnels in his flesh and his thin blood mingles with the granules of salt dripping wetly from his cuff.

'When it is morning,' Basch says mildly in response to the suggestion. He looks up at the sky beyond the dark frayed line of the cliff face; morning is many hours away. The pirate shrugs his shoulders.

'Suit yourself.'

'Aye,' Basch nods again. He does not know why. He continues to stare through the rock and darkness, his back to the ocean. The cold of the wet sand and surf creeps up his legs. His blood is slow in his veins. He thinks about the serpent in his head. The serpent at least is warm with the blood of the rash and foolhardy couerl. He almost smiles for the serpent, but he does not in the end. His face feels drawn and worn as old limestone.

The pirate seems to hesitate in sudden motion. He twitches and almost makes a move to leave Basch, but pulls back at the last instant before his feet move an inch. He stares at his arm angrily and then jerks his sleeve down over the rash. He mutters something harsh and uncouth under his breath.

'I was sixteen,' the pirate says abruptly, 'He took my dreams away from me and I hated him for it.'

Basch says nothing. He is thinking about the paltry rations awaiting the party for breakfast and the long day's journey ahead. He thinks about the heaviness of the pack he must carry tomorrow. He thinks about Ashelia's inner turmoil and how he shall be punished for it. He thinks about the children and how he will best protect them on the morrow from the serpents of T'chita that will eat anything.

'Noah lives to die,' Basch says quietly. 'He hopes my hatred will exonerate him of his failures.'

It is Balthier's turn to nod, sharp and bright, 'Hmm yes, not too well hinged, is our dear Judge Gabranth. He never was; at least not according to the gossips of the judiciary barracks.'

There is silence again. Balthier fidgets while Basch remains still. Behind them both the ocean remains in constant motion and before them the cliffs of Phon do not move nor waver.

'They say your father is quite mad.' Basch points out peaceably.

'Oh he is,' Balthier agrees, 'Certifiable, one might say.'

'Perhaps it is the fashion in Archades?' Basch suggests and Balthier awards him with another snicker.

Basch fancies that there is salt upon his lips, though he knows not how it came to be there. He licks it away; a quick flick of the tongue. He tastes the brine on the air. He thinks of the serpents hidden in the burrows and hollows of T'chita. He thinks that he should sharpen the blade of his axe before the party embarks on the morrow.

'Yesterday,' Balthier says for no obvious reason except to hear his own dark purr on the salty night, 'I did think to drown Vaan in one of the tidal pools down yonder.' He gestures outward along the curve of the coast.

'Aye, I know.' Basch almost smiles, 'Fran stopped you. She did not seem amused.'

Balthier nodded, 'She is fond of Penelo.' He explains. 'She thought the brat's death would upset the girl.'

'After the Archadian conquest I returned once to Landis,' Basch says for no reason, save that he has never mentioned the event before, 'After I had taken commission from Raminas of Dalmasca. I went to see my old home. It was naught but ashes and all I had known were but char and bone.'

He has noticed a lone star, cold and distant, resting in the black sky. It watches him as he watches it. 'Going home shall be hard for you, I wager.' He adds almost as an afterthought.

Balthier is quiet for a small while. Basch is sanguine. He did not expect an answer. The pirate starts to pick at his inflamed arm once more; impatient and angry. Basch fancies his blood is never cold.

'I do believe I am having some form of allergic reaction.' Balthier states after a moment of fierce scratching, 'Fran should have a remedy.'

'Aye,' Basch nods his head, 'T'would be well that you take one. There are insects that pass sickness and fever through the blood.'

'I know,' Balthier replies. There is another pause. 'I had thought I would never return.' He takes a breath; Basch feels the heat of the exhalation. 'I wonder what will have changed in these six years.' The pirate muses, darkly. 'Char and ashes would be wishful thinking on my part.'

'I was called traitor when I returned home, after the conquest.' Basch explains. 'And now in Dalmasca I am traitor again.' There is the faintest strain of bemusement in his tone. He shakes his head slowly; all his movements slow and methodical.

'I am a soldier who keeps losing his wars.' He says as the idea comes to him.

'Hmm, then perhaps you should adopt another profession?' So says the pirate who knows nothing of weathering the storms of fate.

'Nay,' Basch says softly, 'I am content; I know how to live this life. It is mine.'

'Content in ignominy and defeat?' Balthier queries, 'How peculiar you are, Basch Fon Ronsenberg.'

'And you?' Basch asks but does not turn to look at the man who stands beside him in the dark, 'Content are you with this life of flight – or does the salt in your wounds still sting you?'

There is more silence for a heartbeat, then another and another after that.

'The sun will rise soon.' Balthier claims.

Basch shakes his head, 'Three hours or more.'

'Soon enough,' Balthier argues back.

'Aye,' Basch concedes the point. 'Tis soon enough.'

'I am too young for contentment,' Balthier says after another little while, 'I am of an age to rage at fate and tilt at the laws of this Ivalice.' There is a pause, 'Or so Fran tells me.'

Basch nods. 'I remember that age.' He lies. Such heat and vigour was never in his blood. Nay, for him there is only the long and patient wait within the long grasses.

'Hmm,' Balthier purrs and the undertone of humour is rife before he speaks, 'You surprise me, sir. Your memory must be vast indeed to remember so far back.'

Basch almost smiles once again, such a quick wit the pirate has, and yet his jibes are pebbles flung against a façade of granite, leaving nary a scratch.

'It is not so very vast.' The almost smile leaves him faster than it arrived. 'I do not remember the faces of all the men I have slain.' He adds in quiet and rumbling voice.

Balthier stares at him; neck turning and bringing his head with it. The pirate's eyes are fixed on him for a long moment, 'Why would you try?' he asks.

'Because I have seen more of death than life, and it seems proper that I do.' Basch says mildly surprised by the question.

Balthier scoffs, 'All flesh is grass.'

Basch looks at him sideways, 'I have heard that said before; tis a favoured phrase of the Imperial army.'

Balthier shrugs quick and furtive eyes darting from shadow to shadow, 'Be that as it may, it is still true.'

Basch considers and then, after a moment, he shakes his head, 'Nay, 'tis false.'

Balthier smirks, teeth flashing in the thinning darkness, 'Says the man who has seen more of death than life.'

'Aye,' Basch agrees, 'So say I.'

There is silence again. More stars pop up in the sky as a light from nowhere begins to rise. The darkness is receding and the day is not so far from now.

'You shall most likely have to slay your brother, you know.' Balthier tells him conversationally, 'Or else he will slay you and render your precious Princess upon a silver platter at the very feet of Vayne Solidor himself.'

'Mayhaps you are right.' Basch accepts this simply enough. He thinks once again about the cold, cold serpents, coiled in patient knots in the tall grasses. He looks at the cliffs before him.

He thinks a moment more and then decides more needs be said. 'You will kill your father.' He tells the other man with blunt honesty and then he reconsiders and amends the statement thusly, 'You _want_ to kill your father.'

There is a quick hiss of air drawn too sharply through clenched teeth. Balthier jerks where he stands and flinches. Half twisting at the waist he slaps a palm against his flank. 'Damn-all I think I have been bitten again.'

Basch nods, 'Tis the way of it; some are more prone to bites than others.'

'My blood is sweet – that is what Fran tells me.' Balthier admits.

'You will have to add more salt then.' Basch suggests.

There is more silence after that. The ocean continues to push and pull; the surf hisses at Basch's heels as his feet sink into the cold, wet sand. Do Marlboros sing as they dance? He wonders as he stares through the Phon cliffs. Perhaps he will find out on the morrow. Perhaps he will see again a serpent take down a couerl.

'Two days I think.' Balthier speaks again sudden as a gun, 'In answer to your first question,' he clarifies his meaning, 'I think it will be two days trek at least through T'chita. The plains are deceptively vast and thick with fiends.'

'Hungry serpents,' Basch nods readily.

'Angry couerls,' Balthier rejoins.

There is a pause and then, with one breath, both men speak at once: 'And dancing Marlboros.'

There is another pause. The two men look into the eyes of the other. Basch stares through the amber gaze of the pirate with the same equiminity as he does the ancient cliffs of Phon. The pirate does not hold the look for long, his quicksilver gaze dancing on and away. Basch cares not; he is looking for the long grasses and the hidden serpents.

'Two days then,' Basch sighs deeply. Making camp will be treacherous out in T'chita. He will have to stand watch most of the night for however long it takes to reach the Sochen Caves and perhaps beyond. He should not have wasted this one night in idle insomnia. It will likely be cold upon the plains, he thinks with regret.

He is already cold. He is cold in his blood.

'Hmm,' the pirate purrs warmly, 'We might make better progress if we murder the thief and his tag-along before we set out.' He suggests impishly. There is another flash of teeth and the pirate stretches languidly. 'If you are hungry perhaps you could eat them? The girl wouldn't make much of a meal but the boy has some meat on him.'

Basch shakes his head. 'No hungry serpent am I.' He lies.

Balthier chuckles, 'As you say, sir.' He gives his couerl smile.

There is quiet once more; Basch begins to suspect he was wrong before. The sun is rising sooner than he expected; it is almost day. He wonders if the serpents will sleep under the sun, or rise to trouble them on their journey come the morrow.

'Well,' Balthier says abruptly after another lazy stretch, 'I am for bed.' He nods with dry irony to Basch and breaks from the man's side to begin his prowl back to the camp. He is still scratching as he goes.

'G'night Balthier,' Basch calls after him, softly. 'Do not forget that remedy.'

The pirate turns full around to face him and smirks broadly. 'Ah, I think not,' He calls back voice bright with jest, 'For why should I seek remedy now, when there is salt enough here to flavour any sorrow?'

The pirate leaves, darting up over the dunes and back into the tent he shares with his partner. Basch finally turns to face the wide open ocean. He watches the first chains of dawn lasso the sky. He steps forward into the surf; his feet sink to the ankles in the cold and clinging waters and deep into the hidden sands. He can smell the salt. He can taste the brine upon his lips.

The pirate is right, Basch comes to realise, as he watches the sun rise over the water; there is salt enough for any wound in this place, where the cold blooded serpents in the long grasses wait.


End file.
